Variorum
by rosinban
Summary: Someone hit the pavement, and their heart stopped. (Yet their spirit kept on going.) It's not a perfect situation, not by a long shot, but he'll make it work – somehow. [male!sakura][male si/oc insert into sakura]


**Title:**

Variorum

 **Summary:**

Someone hit the pavement, and their heart stopped. (Yet their spirit kept on going.) It's not a perfect situation, not by a long shot, but he'll make it work - somehow. [male!sakura][male si/oc insert]

 **Characters:**

OC, Sasuke U., Naruto U., Sakura H.

 **Genres:**

Adventure, Tragedy

 **Rating:**

T (it's not for safety, this is definitely considered 'T'.)

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 _Note:_ Yes, this story does include an OC that committed suicide. Not everyone's experience is the same, so please don't flame me (although, if you think some portions could be more realistic, then by all means do mention that.) Yes, I have done some research, however it's really impossible for me (someone who has never had depression before) to picture it perfectly.

Compared to death by car, suicide gets almost no acknowledgement unless it's a ship fic looking for some angsty feels to put in there until the pair inevitable end up together, so hopefully I did okay.

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 _Also note:_ This is a male!Sakura fic. I have no idea why Sakura has so few genderbender fics (in comparison to the number of fem!Naruto or fem!Sasuke fics), but it's different so... hey, why not?

Unless everyone except me thinks it's a good idea, I will not be changing the gender of any other character.

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 **Final note:**

If you are reading this on a desktop computer/laptop/large tablet, then turn the viewing mode to '3/4'. It's at the top, shown as three lines. Click on it, and it should give the options 'Full . 3/4 . 1/2'

The reason for this is because I write all my stories in Microsoft Word, sometimes even on my phone, making judging line length extremely difficult for when the finished product goes out to you guys. And yes, I'm lazy, so once I think I've gotten it right I hardly ever bother to change it unless it looks extremely awkward.

I actually read all fanfictions in 3/4 on . They just look nicer that way.

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edit: within several minutes of posting, I've already decided to change around ages of 'Sakumo'. But I'm too tired right now. whoops.

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another edit: in response to that one guy unimpressed with my overuse of parentheses, I will look over my writing again and rewrite certain sections (I was going to do that anyway) and see if I can remove a few of brackets that aren't adding to the story.

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Every day, she traversed this route - headphones in, sometimes even with her eyes shut. There was no need to look – the pavement didn't waver from its pedantically straight existence, and no one had the time to question her habits. In any case, she could name every single post, every drain, every building down to the colour of their front door and name the businesses inhabiting them.

There was nothing more to see, and watching it was like seeing the same video on endless replay.

Again and again and again.

And so very often, nothing of note happened. It really was just that – a dreary corporate-dominated road, filled with tall offices and suit wearing officials hurrying everywhere with the latest iPhone or Samsung pressed to their ear and gold-plated watches that they glanced at every few seconds. No one had time for another. Everyone had somewhere else to be, and the pavement was simply that – thoroughfare.

No matter if they were carbon copies of each other, there was a hand's width between everyone that was never breached. (Cool looks and judging eyes and subtle sneers in pretty packaging.)

For a long while, the most interesting thing that had happened was a pickpocket who'd been easily shaken off and kicked in the gut by a red-faced office worker, briefly knocked unconscious and was arrested within a few minutes as the police patrol came around. All the action was over in seconds – and really wouldn't be too far off bland if this particular road wasn't so plain itself.

Until the man hit the pavement.

It wasn't pretty, or symbolic. It was with a sickening crunch of bones snapping, and instantly his eyes were glassy. (And her hands were shaking, and she muffled a scream behind tightly pressed lips because _oh god_ a man just _committed suicide_ right in front of her.)

And her heat had dropped into her stomach and mouth suddenly gritty and so very dry, and words of advice in her mind shrivelled as

someone

just

died.

Nearby, one of those drab triple piece suit-wearers was ringing 999, stumbling over his words as he stared at the small, slowly growing pool of blood under the corpse that still lay on the pavement - and it kept growing, both agonisingly slowly as it inched across the pavement, yet too quickly as it was the very substance of life that leaked away even as she stared.

Then the ambulance drove up, ushering people out of the immediate area (yet she couldn't drag her eyes away from that body, at the bitter smile that graced its broken body, like a bird with broken wings) and whispers of "He's dead, he's really dead" rang through the crowd.

Of course, she had to get to work. Yet her hands wouldn't stop trembling (and just like that- gone, the magician's trick except it wasn't sleight of hand as there was a _corpse that was very real_ ) and when she came back, the distant smell of blood and disinfectant lingered around a spot on the pavement, just below a 40-storey office block. There was nothing different about that block - plain, grey, a distinctly dated air clinging to it - except for the memories of the man falling, falling, falling. (Snap.)

In the future, the stain was gone, of course.

Although she knew this logically, her mind couldn't stop overlaying the stiffening corpse and pooling blood onto that innocuous stretch of concrete. And even when the memories grew old and sepia-toned and all the businessmen on-looking had long forgotten – there was still that perfect clarity of his face.

It was of regret. Of a life that could've been salvaged, that wanted to be saved, that should have been healed – yet now all that was left was a slight jump in the endless replay of the streets, and a distant recollection of a single, wilting flower at his concrete grave.

.

.

.

More and more and more. Always demanding from reserves that just weren't there, for time that was already allocated, for funds that didn't just magic themselves up.

And there was never enough money.

It was 5 a.m starts on the bus, full of sleepy-eyed workers and energy drinks and the consensus that no one really wanted to be there, working gruelling hours with a harried sandwich in between. Then working and working and working in Job 2, filing paper after paper with the unbearable stuffy office making him dread every second spent there.

After that, Job 3, with soap suds and rough cloths and repetitive work that left his hands stiff and mind utterly drained from washing plate after plate after plate. (And they had bought larger dishwashers, and were thinking of lying off a few of the menial workers – him being right in the firing line.)

A single highlight after that – visiting the hospice. Although, more often than not, the bus was late and the opening times missed by him, yet there was no time to mourn broken promises as it was on to Job 4, watching cameras on a set of screens in front of him.

Nothing ever happened.

Yet he couldn't allow his head to nod for a second, or they'd be on to him and that'd be a job lost.

It was back at home near midnight, collapsing into bed at outrageous hours and waking at equally ludicrous ones.

And yet there still was never enough money.

2-minute showers, just frequent enough to not smell like a sewer, was the water wasted. Never was the oven or cooker used, the microwave offering a far cheaper and quicker method to ensure he didn't starve. Barely were the lights turned on – much navigating was done in the darkness, and he was never home at any other time of the day, anyway. And if it was cold, well, that's what jackets were for, right?

And yet there still was never enough money.

What had he dropped out of school for? To pay his deceased mother's debts (for drugs and alcohol and nights out, every night). To watch as his little sister wasted away in a hospital bed, and he having to pay for it. To watch her die, slowly. Yet he dare not move her to the cheaper hospice. It was practically infamous for having a poor 'imminently dying' ward, more interested in catering to longer-term patients; and so, even if his bank account screamed its complaints, there was nothing to do about it.

If he didn't pay those debts, then loan sharks and bailiffs and so many other unsavoury characters would be visiting, stripping his flat bare and threatening him with eviction. If he didn't pay the hospice fees, then it'd be harshly worded letters replacing them, threatening his sister (his dear sister, it wasn't her fault) and he couldn't do that in good faith.

In the end, the only way to scrounge up the money was boycotting his own needs. (Except it couldn't go on as he was wasting away and scars were appearing on his wrists and suddenly death seemed hilarious and far, far too close for comfort.)

And he was drowning and couldn't say a word, and the from the side of the tracks the railway lines looked so inviting, and a bath and a sedative didn't seem as crazy as he'd first thought (because there was never enough and more and more and more had to be given from things he didn't have to people he didn't want, and he was too proud and wary for a loan and sick of everything and everyone.)

And then it was given that his little sister (Mia, I'm so sorry, please forgive me. I'm not worthy of your existence.) had 6 months left, at best, and the loan sharks were at his door with fresh bills scrounged up from years ago by his mother for heroin and shots.

And a slush fund was made - it was just common sense, at least it _was_ at the time - and everything prepared for, and then he was standing on top of the office block, hearing the steady hum of the city below him, and there was just a moment of hesitation (why am I here, my appointment's over, let's go back down the stairs and go and visit Mia) before I was stepping out over the side of the building and people were screaming-

-and it was black.

(Ethan Featherstone died via committing suicide from jumping off a 37-storey building.)

(And there was a smile on his face and scars were up and down his wrists and a little sister, only 9 years old, was left in a hospice without a single remaining family member. Shortly after, her health deteriorated and she died only 6 and half weeks later.)

.

.

For a long while, it was peaceful. I didn't think (didn't want to wake up, didn't want to face the pricks of guilt that sometimes rose in my stomach.) And it was warm and cosy and felt so inviting, there was no need to move.

Yet all good things come to an end. An end that's always far too near.

Then suddenly it wasn't so comfortable, and the sensation of being crushed and choking and my lungs were on fire. Every vein was on _fire_. It burned and burned and burned, with a cold fire that wouldn't extinguish, and too-large hands that left the sensation of scorched skin and the sun was outside my tightly closed eyelids.

And I screamed and screamed and screamed, because I just wanted to leave. Just wanted to be over with it all. Just wanted to die.

Someone swaddled me in something cosy and my tears dried off a little – will it be over soon, will I leave – and then a fierce pull on my eyelids and the next thing I knew, I'd woken again. (Or did I fall asleep in the first place?) Opening unwilling eyelids - weighted down with lead, by the feel of it - they were immediately shut again as everything was illuminated a brilliant white, occasionally blurring and violently changing colour. (What's the point? Not like you waking would do any good.)

Yet I was hungry. So I should get some food. (But it still tastes like cardboard and what's the point of eating you're just going to make yourself fat you selfish pig) and I tried to lift a leg, to get off the bed and eat, even if all that was left of the experience was the mechanical motion of chewing.

Not a single muscle in my body listened.

I strained and struggled, yet it was like I was trapped _inside my own body_ and I started screaming because I couldn't move oh god I couldn't I was stuck trapped drowning-

-and something lifted me into the air, and I kept crying because I was suffocating inside this body that couldn't move an inch that wouldn't move an inch that was my coffin dressed in pretty colours and... did I really want to die again, like this?

Did it matter?

So my struggles died down, even as my limbs could only pathetically wiggle at best, and focused on the repetitive in-out of my breath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. (At some point, something was put in my mouth and I drank without a second thought, listening to my slow breaths.) And eventually fell asleep.

It wasn't particularly peaceful, not really, yet it was better than suffering. (Usually.)

.

.

Over the next few 'awakenings', life returned - somewhat - to my limbs, and my cries became less furious and more habit. Now my hands could somewhat move, making me feel a little less trapped – not that much, yet it was better than feeling stuck in a veritable cabbage of a body.

Yet, I still didn't want to open my eyes. Pretending that they were all simple disembodied sensations was far easier than fighting through the pain of watching what was out there – and for what? Why do I need to see? Everything my eyes land upon crumbles to dust.

At some point, however, I eventually cracked open my eyes (because it had been too long for a simple dream and something clenched in my throat because Mia was there and the bills weren't paid and there were letters from the bailiff on the floor) and everything went wrong. As it usually did. Every type of awakening was a rude one.

As immediately I could identify three problems.

Firstly – my body was tiny. It was a baby body. It was the teeny-weeny thing, padded with enough fat to make a McDonald's Happy Meal; and that couldn't really do much more than flop around uselessly and look cute. (That was just problem one.)

Secondly – well, undoubtedly, it was related to the first- yet the room was giant. As if it were built by giants, for giants. Above me, the ceiling stretched up and up, and the windows were ridiculously large, and there was a spider hanging onto the wall that, although held all the markings of a bog-standard house-sized thing, was the size of a tarantula.

Thirdly – straight out the oversized window was a cliff.

A cliff with four faces carved into the side of it. They were blurred, doubtless. Nearly undecipherable. Yet I was positive they were faces. And that looked exactly the same as that 'manga' that I bought for… Mia. (And the guilt was back – a flood this time, choking and forcing out sobs and my hands shook-)

Calm. Breathe. In, out, in out. (Put down the blades, dry the tears, open your eyes and just feel the air in your lungs.)

So, either someone made a crazily accurate duplicate of that mountain right outside my window – which is impossible, since who the fuck had the time, money and obsessive desire for that – or I'm dead. Or I'm in a coma. (Impossible. You jumped, you know you did, with blood thinning agent in your blood and the snap of ribs-)

So I died. And am in a fantasy world of Naruto.

Which I knew fuck-all about, considering I only started reading it to Mia by the time she'd already finished half and her health… faltered.

This time, sleep was wholly accepted.

.

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In this rendition, I've glossed over the caring. The breastfeeding and nappy-changing and feeling so sickeningly dependant on someone else, without giving a penny in return. Those days when moving was so much effort, when I stared at the ceiling and choked on my own ragged breathing, when my mother and father gave me concerned looks and patted me and kissed me and spoke in hushed whispers – yet I couldn't hear them, since my soul was still falling through the air.

Again. Again. Again. (snap)

That doesn't mean that they didn't exist. Everyone on Earth could not talk about the ground – that didn't make the ground any less real. Or, any less real from where it started, which is not much – since the illusion of reality was weak and fraying, and the only reason they hadn't been exposed and painted and had signs put up was because people didn't like to look through the holes. They exposed something which made their lives utterly worthless, and the truth could be rather biting at times.

Let's move on.

Did I love 'Okaa-san' and 'Otou-san'?

Never as much as Mia, certainly. Mia was my life, a little piece of something I had to protect (yet you failed, pathetic worthless a waste of time) yet… I loved them? It was hard not to – that acceptance, that baseless acceptance with nothing more than love for my many, many faults – it was addicting, and sliding into it was a head-over-heels thing of uncontrollable velocity.

So, I loved them.

That fact wasn't as hard to digest as I'd thought. And I'd justified it - it wasn't throwing away – it was adding, and those open hands kept on dragging me further in. (Self-justification? How pitiful. It's only to make yourself feel better about throwing away Mia, precious Mia, Mia who you swore you'd never leave; yet you did, didn't you?)

Inhale. Exhale.

Love… was a hard thing to understand. Formless. (And it was too early to be dwelling on the nature of human relationships, and the pull on my eyelids – to slip into the abyss and not think – was almost irresistible, and-)

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Most of my first year was a blur. Staying alive (steady, steady, inhale, exhale) eating, drinking. And moving – moving was important, to remind myself that my current reality wasn't a casket six feet underground. Okaa-san and Otou-san were so proud, seeing a child take stumbling steps across the floor – yet their reality wasn't mine, so it wasn't totally uncalled for them to think of me as 'son'.

As Haruno Sakumo.

Let's not assume that I knew much about 'Naruto'. Because, well, I never did and never will. Yet, when you're reading to a deathly ill little sister, it's hard not to get drawn into it – just a little – and I wasn't that stupid that I forgot that there was an odd character in there called 'Haruno Sakura'.

Did I replace her?

It was hard to answer, yet I… liked being called Sakumo. It was a clearly defined boundary, and even labels held power. Yet I was just running, running from all my problems (–and you're running from the hard truth that you _betrayed Mia_. Still running. And some day you're going to look back and see the world tearing itself apart under your feet, since you're-)

Perhaps I replaced her. I'm not guilty. (Disgusting. So much that afterlife rejected you.)

Slowly, I began to learn the language. It was some blend of Asian languages – primarily Japanese, yet it was almost as if they'd thrown some German syllables in there for good measure as the words seemed weighted and… sharp? Cutting. Militaristic in its pronunciation, and filled with unspoken orders. And I didn't – couldn't – pronounce it properly. Those distinct cut-offs and barks turned into rolls with gentle lilts and flat diction.

And something in me didn't want to lose it, lose my accent and stilted way of speaking, because that'd be losing some part of me and even now my previously treasured memories blurred into inconsistent rambles and sat on my heart like lumps of concrete.

Yet I still understood it enough - and certainly with enough knowledge to hear the whispers of 'genius', 'prodigy'. Bitter smiles twisted on my lips whenever I heard the words - might as well keep up this façade. At a certain point, it become easier to carry on lying than halt the rumours in their tracks.

It was at around 10 months – already toddling along, speaking in simple words and articulated babble – that my parents finally decided that I needed communication with other children. So, I went on an excursion. 'To play' they said, with uncertainty in their eyes as they had no idea what to treat me as. That baby that I was on the outside, the apparent child prodigy that inhabited its brain – or me?

They decided on neither, and it didn't really work.

Yet I didn't mind – for their hands were still open and filled with nothing but love and it was drawing me in against my better judgement – so I smiled and nodded and I and my Okaa-san went to the playground.

(One to replace my childhood one, the childhood one that sank into depression and despair and accumulated beer cans and creaky swings until it was knocked down.)

.

.

.

There was precisely 39 and a half minutes before Father expected him home, and although he wished to see Sasuke – he really did, his sweet little brother – there was a great unwillingness to return home. Tensions were high, extremely high, and even as the reinstated Sandaime tried to soothe ruffled feathers it never really worked.

So he sat on the swings, listlessly swinging back and forth, taking in the stray brick or chunk of plaster that still remained from Kyuubi. A year ago, maybe, yet it was still fresh in people's minds. Hard to forget, really. What with the giant fox tearing up Konoha as if it were no more a challenge than crushing ants under its feet.

Then the child walked into the park, and his attention was captured. (It wasn't just because of the pink hair, either.)

As parallels, he could see them. In the stumbling steps, in the stilted words, in the stature that showed quite clearly that she was a child – yet those eyes that were too sharp, too aware, simply _wrong_. After all, he would know – he saw in them in the mirror every day.

Ushering him forwards was a slightly harried-looking mother. It was clear she loved him, and that's all he could really ask of a mother (yet Mikoto, Okaa-san, was filled with hidden edges and spotted with blood and _treachery_ ), but nevertheless there was a distance between them. Their hands touched, however their minds were working on different wavelengths entirely.

It was heart-breaking. Because they wanted to love each other, however it was quite clear that child – unrefined as he was – could be compared to a gold mine of potential, and there was no understanding.

"Here we are, Saku-kun!" Looking around, it was clear she was a little intimidated at how much older all the children around were – and the slightest amount of disbelief, too. Almost as if she couldn't believe the difference – or similarities, perhaps – between her child and the ones that surrounded him. The ones that were almost 5 years older. "Go and play now, okay?"

"'kay." And there was nothing particularly enthusiastic about him, if anything, it was hesitant and weary, yet still he walked forwards, giving a cautious pull on the rope of the climbing frame, before making his steady way up. Nevertheless, despite that slightest bit of hesitance, there was an air of practice in his movements – as if he'd done this many times before – and something akin to nostalgia twisted his face into grim smile.

That was what this child was, he decided. Not just a fellow genius, but a puzzle. And even if the pieces were scattered on all 4 winds, well – they still existed, correct?

Yet he was getting distracted now, as for a good few moments the child had sat at the top - watching everything with an eagle eye. There was an odd focus on the cleanliness of the playground, for some reason unbeknownst to him.

And then his hands shook, and something curled his lip – guilt, it was sorrow and desperation and _guilt_ , yet what would a child be remorseful about, much less one that was as intelligent as him? (After all, intelligent people had ways of justifying themselves.) In a second, however, the moment was over and he climbed back down, looking around with slumped shoulders. "I… bored." Each word was enunciated, yet they came out flat.

Strange. Extremely so.

"A-ah." Smile faltering, his mother gave a tight-lipped expression that might be considered gentle if there wasn't something lingering in her eyes. "So, you don't want to play."

"Well…" frowning a little, he seemed to ponder for a moment. "Yes, and no. I don't… Okaa-san make sad, but I do not play."

And his mother melted into a puddle, sweeping up her estranged child and giving a guilty smile. "I won't be sad, Saku-kun. Let's go get some dango, okay?" With no small amount of haste, the duo left, and – with nothing to occupy him further – he left too, in the opposite direction.

Very suddenly, for some reason, he'd felt a desperate gnaw in his heart to see Sasuke.

.

.

.

With nothing else to direct my mind to (with no wholly-illegal debts or hospice visits or desperate scrambles to fish up some money from _somewhere_ , _anywhere_ ) I absorbed the language like a sponge. So what if their writing system was all over the place? In theory, I had an entire life to learn it again.

And then it was my first birthday, with cake and sweet delicacies and books – many books – stacked in piles as gifts. Yet, even at the tender age of 1, I was trotting and speaking in sentences and only fell over some of the time – and the gazes that landed on me were not all friendly. If anything, they were crossed between horror and awe and it was like being dissected by a million unfriendly hands as they stared down at me.

"Do you want to be a shinobi, Sakumo-kun?" One of my relatives (strawberry blond, light dusting of freckles, scar on his upper temple) had asked, an odd look in his eyes.

"He's only one year old, Fujita!" With a look of utmost irritation, his wife cuffed him around the shoulder, yet his expression still held mild curiosity.

I shrugged.

That seemed to be enough of an answer, as the couple left soon after, having already shared a few strained pleasantries with Okaa-san and Otou-san. Yet, it had been a rather unpleasant wake-up to choosing career, for I was quite certain shinobi started early.

And it all came down to money. To cash, to wads of cash, to being rich. Job satisfaction was rather low down on the list, because I still remembered the tears and blood and pain of all this money that needed to be paid, and I couldn't get a loan since what bank would be stupid enough, and I couldn't get help because I was wading around drug cartels and neck deep in debt and then choking-

Inhale. Exhale.

"How much shinobi… money?" Looking rather baffled, Okaa-san and Otou-san exchanged a quick look – children didn't worry about money, much less on their first birthday – yet then Okaa-san patted my head and answered. "Money they got?"

"It's 'how much do shinobi get paid', and it depends." Was her irritatingly opaque answer. "Low-ranked ninja don't earn too much. But high-level ninja earn lots."

"What about…" for a moment, I tapped my foot. "…banker?" It was a far-off dream, certainly, just another thing that was crumpled and forgotten in the stampede of time. Yet, it was a dream of mine at some point, wasn't it? Just when we'd received the first debt notice.

"I…" and the distant pull at my eyelids was just about there, however I pushed it back. (Curse this child's body.) "You're getting tired, aren't you?"

"Nah…" Made significantly less convincing by the yawn that just about escaped muffled lips. (and the darkness pulled and pulled except he – I – didn't want that as they were Sakumo now and-)

.

.

Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I shot up, pushing pink – it's pink, it's definitely pink – hair out of my face (as the abyss still pulled and pulled but I would fight, I would fight them, I would fight it, I would…)

I didn't want to leave. Here, there was a special little place carved out for me, rather than scrabbling at the unyielding rock with bleeding hands, watching others settle in their own place.

(Failure.)

.

.

It was a full few months before I went on my next 'large' excursion - well, beyond toddling to the dango shop and back, that is - and the air was hung again with all the crispness of the winter chills as I sedately walked along the path, clasping Otou-san and Okaa-san's hands.

"I heard there's going to be a performance today, from the Genjutsu division, for children." It wasn't difficult to tell that it was pitched towards me. Not that there seemed to be a lot of choice in my life, since it seemed every child with above-average intelligence was essentially expected to be shipped off to the Academy, regardless of personal feelings.

"Okay." Releasing their hands, I gave a quick, polite bow in farewell as we reached the bustling town centre. "I see you when… per-for-mance done." A few curious (scrutinizing, cold) eyes looked over, however I ignored them. They'd long become part of 'ordinary'.

A group of adults, decked out in ninja gear, was standing in a line on the stage, with rows of children shoving to get to the front. Except I didn't really want to get that close, as there was the glint of metal as they turned in the light and a bitter twist to their smiles and death hung around them like the _plague_. (Grimacing a little, I shifted further away from them. It wasn't difficult to take that darkness in their eyes and picture it hanging around them as a sign displaying all their crimes and hardships.)

So, settling down at the back, they eventually called order. "Hello, Konohan children!" There was a plastic feel to them, and unintentionally I shifted away (and they caught my eyes and my breath caught in my throat as-)

A few disjointed calls of 'hi' were sent back. (-as there was an impenetrable darkness, and it twisted at my soul as I saw the pavement come rushing before me-)

"We'll be using something called 'genjutsu' today." Bending down slightly, as if she were telling a secret, she cupped a hand around her mouth. "It's a ninja skill that can create illusions. Oh – but don't tell anyone else, okay?" (-and I was hitting the ground, and there was a spray of blood and screaming and utter agony. And it clung to their skin, as it did to mine, and choked.)

(It was on their skin – haunted streaks of blood and tears and sweat – and it was on mine.)

(It was on mine, and wasn't letting go.)

"If you become a ninja, you might be able to do genjutsu one day, yeah?" One of the other shinobi stepped forwards, an awkward quirk to his lips. Yet the children lapped it up, and a trace of legitimacy laced his expression. "So, without further ado, we'll begin!"

And then their hands blurred, then something inside me twisted. (Warped, lined with sludge and forcing it to twist into ribbons.) It was in every vein, running like blood, and it burned and burned and I was suddenly too aware of a warmth in my chest that was dulling, dulling every second as I plunged into the abyss of memories that were shackled around my wrists.

There was a ghost in front of me. It was a brilliant fireworks show, filled with bursts of gold and red and blue, set against a deep night sky. Something told me to believe it. That flimsy veneer before my eyes which had the constitution of rice paper and was filled to the brim with things it couldn't deliver.

So I blinked - slowly – and ignored the darkening skies and sound of thunderous applause. (It was clingy, sticking to my skin like cobwebs, yet it was still merely an illusion.)

And stared straight at the ninja.

"Who's this kid?" One jumped down, staring at my face. Frowning a little, I pulled away from the pretty colours that burst across his face (and the thrumming inside my chest that was so very foreign and pulsed and made me feel like I was about to regurgitate everything I'd consumed-) shifting uncomfortably when he stepped forwards again.

"They broke the genjutsu?" Footsteps – miniature cannons making each step uneven and far too loud – and whatever was in my stomach was beginning to boil. (It was scorching, and I scrabbled at my chest because it was so foreign get it out get it out get it out-) "Holy shit, I think they unlocked their chakra." As whatever was in my stomach was spiking erratically yet it kept shifting and-

-inahle. Exhale. Inhale.

It was more placid now, that _thing_ in my stomach, although the delusions of brilliant bursts of flame over Konoha were uncomfortable vivid – moreso than before. Nonetheless, the outlines of people were still there - dizzyingly overlaid, as if reality was now the ghost and I was insane for thinking that it was the middle of the day - and I opened my mouth.

(There was sludge around me, and my body was a gilded coffin and I couldn't move I couldn't move-)

"What t- time… it?" It was garbled. Horribly so. (And those lines were dissolving into the ground, and suddenly I wasn't so sure that they existed. A trick of the light?)

No. There was still something knotted in my stomach, and then I was choking as it filled my throat and-

"It's 2 p.m." A pause, as the fireworks burst above. "Wait, how old is this kid?"

"Younger than 2 years old, older than 1." Swallowing had no effect on whatever was in my stomach, that immaterial substance that refused to be quenched, that burned and burned and burned and didn't belong there get it out- "They're not supposed to unlock their chakra until after 3 years old. And definitely not supposed to be making that much sense."

"Damn." And another shower of golden sparks were stark against the black-blue-grey-white sky, and that _thing_ inside me spiked again (and I covered my mouth as I was sure I'd throw it up it was right in my throat) and the sky shattered into a million pieces and I was…

…still sitting on the ground, infinitesimally shaking, and staring up at the 4 ninja who'd been doing the genjutsu demonstration. With something flowing around my veins that was an unstoppable tide.

And the chatter of the market didn't change the fact that a world had collapsed around my ears (not the first time, but it didn't get better with experience) and I didn't want this world to crash either, since I'd go back and have to face Mia, Mia didn't deserve it, she didn't- I was-

"I… Okaa-san, Otou-san-" and I couldn't stop the flowing tears that streaked across my cheeks, since I didn't want to leave and reality's holes had suddenly expanded to epic proportions and it was tearing itself apart. And inside me, inside it was tearing me apart as I felt sure that's where flesh was supposed to be yet there were rivulets of something so utterly foreign. "I…" My words trailed off into burbles.

"What's going on here? Don't tell me you messed up the genjutsu. Honestly." Hastily, I wiped away the tear tracks. (Weak, weak, so very weak. No wonder you couldn't do a thing for Mia. No wonder you did something as cowardly as killing yourself.)

Behind me was what seemed to be a police officer. Or something like that. I was a little too familiar with their presence for my liking, the last time I saw them being a day before my 'death' – arresting a 15-year-old outside my block of flats. Black eyes were set upon pale skin, and a symbol was on his clothes.

A… fan?

Except it looked just like from the manga – and ha, I hadn't thought about that in a long time, however I was rapidly slipping through the fabric of reality itself and I needed to grasp onto something, anything.

It was okay.

So, the… Uchiha, yes, that sounds about right – they were murdered when that Sasuke guy was around 6, correct? And he was born around the same time as the protagonist, Naruto, who was born around the same time as Haruno Sakura.

As me.

Funny. Even in death, I ruined people's lives. Wonder where the actual little Sakura went, and whether anyone knows I'm just an imposter wearing her skin (and you said you'd never lie, that you'd be honest, that you'd be brave and good and generous yet you never achieved any of that, did you?)

Calm.

"You are… a …Uch-i-ha?" At once, five pairs of eyes were on me. (Ignore it, ignore the sudden realisation of that thing hanging in the air around me breathing it in inside me inside my lungs-)

"Yes, I am Uchiha Fugaku." With a sharp eye, he looked over me. "How old are you?"

For a moment, I thought over it. "One year and…9 months?" Or it might be eight. Or ten. Time passed in an extraordinarily strange manner, as if everything was blurred together until the memories were all part of the same picture, with only the slightest distinction between them.

"Shit." Came a faint whisper. Was this unnatural? I knew I came off as intelligent, however I really doubted I was that far ahead of the curve.

"What's your name?" This time, 'Fugaku's' voice was demanding, and I unintentionally flinched. (failure failure failure weak weak weak)

"Haruno Sakumo." And here their eyes went hard at my name, and I attempted to stand (and some of whatever it was in my stomach moved to my leg and my eyes widened as it was like some autonomous parasite inside me-) only to stumble a little, staring at my leg in shock.

"We think he's unlocked his chakra." Came a belated note from one of the genjutsu ninja.

"We'll have to bring him to the hospital then." In a blur, I was on top of Fugaku's shoulders, all air leaving my lungs from the sheer speed of it. "You-" pointing at the ninja with bandages wrapped around every limb like a mummy. "-find this child's parents. The rest of you cancel the show and escort the children."

And the world blurred and everything was so very comfortable, even as fire licked my stomach because who cared about that when I had an eternity to drift? (to drift further and further away, as I was a coward who couldn't face their problems. Because the world had just collapsed and if I looked too hard, this one might fall apart too.)

.

.

.

It was a relatively calm day in the hospital when the esteemed Uchiha Fugaku walked in with a child on his shoulders.

A few whispers broke out, however they really didn't look alike – small mercies. There was only a certain number of Uchiha one world could cope with, and what with how hard he pushed Itachi (judging by the near-weekly visits for 'torn this' and 'fractured that') the hospital really didn't need more stress.

"It's thought this child, Haruno Sakumo, has unlocked his chakra." Eyes were naturally drawn him, like moths to a flame – truly a leader of one of the Noble Clans; and then to the child - past the 'dependant baby' stage, sure, however still too young and too innocent and… how? "I will oversee the appointment."

As the Hyuuga-on-duty (or the HOD, as people so liked to shorten her noble clan's name) she was quickly put forwards, consciously forcing herself to not activate her Byakugan in the face of the Uchiha clan head. No matter how much she wanted to - as children couldn't (shouldn't) control their chakra at this age, and no doubt much damage had already been done to the chakra vessel's integrity at such a crucial point in life. Yet that would be a slight towards Fugaku himself, and tensions were so very high already between them.

There was nothing but frostiness between the Uchiha clan and Konoha.

Just Uchiha, sitting in the middle of that blizzard.

Gently ushering them into her consultation room, the child – Haruno Sakumo, what an unfortunate name, after a fallen hero and legend – she activated her Byakugan.

And recoiled, as there was that all-too-familiar imbalance in his chakra that was the earmark and ultimate confirmation that a child was a genius (and she should have really seen that coming earlier as he was too young yet those eyes held depth that she could never hope to unearth.) Dominating was spiritual chakra, comparatively dwarfing his still undeveloped physical chakra.

A common trait between prodigies.

"This child – Haruno Sakumo, is it? – has heavily dominating spiritual chakra." There was now a self-satisfied smirk on Fugaku, in the manner of a cat that just got its milk, which twisted his previously blank face.

"Of course. Please continue." And his voice was smooth and was filled with an edge of smugness and eyes that hungered with such ferocity that she blocked him out of her vision (even if she really couldn't, what with 360 degree sight) yet she tried, tried extremely hard, and examined the now confirmed prodigy's channels.

"Minor chakra burns around the core." Quickly, she filed through her mind for the special lecture they'd received when treating patients someone in power had taken an interest in. A special protocol was exclusively dedicated to them, and as the HOD, she knew it back to front to middle. "Should I treat them?"

"Do."

Healing – especially something that was a comparatively minor in the hospital – was like flicking on a light switch. It had been something trained into her from the start, for every child in Hyuuga Branch 4, and in less than a minute all evidence of damage had been erased.

"There are no further injuries." Straightening up to her full height – a scant few centimetres off the Clan Head's himself – she continued in a format derived from mission reports. "Likely caused by early unlocking of chakra. I would highly recommend starting chakra training at the earliest point possible, as once the chakra sedative you applied wears off, likely the chakra will begin causing repeated coil damage."

"I see." Placing a hand on the child (and she resisted the urge to shoo him away as everyone knew they were power-hungry bastards and there was a possessive twist to his grip) Fugaku gave a polite nod. "The Uchiha Military Police Force will take care of this… case from this point forth, and will contact the Konohagakure no Sato General Hospital should any more help be required."

"Patient Haruno Sakumo is henceforth discharged from the Konohagakure no Sato General Hospital's care." Hardly anyone bothered with all these formal agreements, however no doubt Fugaku didn't want to get caught up in the red tape of legality for whatever he was planning next. Which, of course, boded so very well for the sedated child currently in her consultation room. "Good day, Uchiha."

"Good day, Hyuuga." And then they were gone, and she was already groaning over all the paperwork this incident would end her up in.

No matter how unique it was, no matter if the pink hair that curled around his cherubic cheeks (and was named after someone scorned and spat on, of all things) was certainly unnatural, no matter if he was escorted here by the Uchiha Clan Head and Officer Uchiha Fugaku – it was another patient and several entire pages of tidy handwriting.

.

.

.

There's fire licking at my heels.

It's a little more ticklish than actual flames, doubtless, yet it was slowly rising in warmth and I knew, knew from the very substance of my bones, that if waited too long my bones would be burned to a crisp and if I jumped too soon then-

-and it never mattered in the end, as I always jumped (always, every time, staring down and then reality _snapped_ ) and there was a rush of guilt (Mia, it always came back to Mia) and then it shattered between my fingers-

-and even as the world broke into little pieces that dug into my skin, little stars woven into me that were all edges and blood carefully wiped away that _now were me_ , there was a cynical smile on my lips as, well, wasn't this new?

.

As I wake, it's to a too-bright sun and a feeling that I never really slept at all, every limb buzzing with- with-

And then my hands are being restrained my back as I twitch them towards the thing that ran through my veins and that was so very utterly _wrong_. Distantly, I remembered it from my baby years, in the midst of the miniature suns and smothering blankets, yet I'd forgotten – and now it'd been pointed out to me again, and it was like I'd grown an extra nose.

"Sakumo-kun?" It was Okaa-san's face there, strained and looking like she'd aged several years since I'd last saw her. "Are you okay?"

"Yes." It rushed out of my mouth, false words of 'I'll be here' and 'It's fine' and… and… (the tears that ran down my cheeks when the world exploded around me).

Yet, right now, I was in the living room.

Inhale. Exhale.

"As the dependant of Haruno Mebuki and Haruno Kizashi, it has been decided that it is your choice whether to accept the offer of the Uchiha Clan." And it was the police officer from earlier – Fugaku Uchiha – and the rolling of my stomach redoubled and I _forced_ it down. "The Uchiha Clan offers for you to become a representative of our clan. In essence, we provide teaching and equipment, and in return you represent our clan and abide by our rules."

I blinked. (All traces of sleep had been banished.)

Some part of me wanted to complain this was forced. That I understood only half of what he said. That this was moving too fast and completely out of the blue and _what_? However there was still the equivalent of swallowing a lake in some extra stomach inside me, and I figured I really didn't have much leeway.

They want me to represent them.

So they found out I was a genius.

What about the timing? Well, it could be that they wanted no other clan to claim my… being? My talent, shall we say, before them. However, there was also whatever bubbled inside me that he – Fugaku – somehow expected, meaning they knew about it.

They could _stop_ it.

There was still no way I was going to sign a one-sided deal involving my person, though.

"What…" and something pinched in my stomach, and my lip curled. It would have to be quick. "…are these rules?"

"Currently? They are to obey both the Hokage's word and the Uchiha Clan's orders; to – at all times – display exemplary behaviour; to not divulge any information on the Uchiha Clan to any outsiders, including other Konohans, without express permission by either a Branch Head or the Board of Uchiha Elders;" for a moment, he paused, as if drawing up information from some deep part of his brain "and to obey by Uchiha tax rules, which is currently 15% of all earnings on missions above C-rank, and 8% of earnings for any businesses you may own that earns over 3,000,000 yen per year."

Several words went straight over my head, however I made rough guesses and hoped that they were accurate. (Likely he was trying to confuse me – a double-edged strategy, yet it must have been proved effective in the past.)

"Can rules be added at any time?"

"With the permission of the current Clan Head, which is me, the Board of Uchiha Elders, and all Branch Heads with exception of Branch 14, yes, rules can be added."

"How much am I paid as a shinobi?" And this is really what I wanted to know, as the little jar of coins was worth pittance and I didn't – couldn't – deal with debts and all that entailed all

over

again.

"As a Jounin – a high-ranked shinobi-" hastily, he changed his wording as I frowned, "you are expected to earn around 1,050,000 yen. Obviously, lowlier-ranked shinobi are often paid less, however you will be reimbursed for the risks you take."

"Okay." And the expressions on Okaa-san and Otou-san's faces turned plastic and brittle, yet they didn't understand (they'd never understand) that simple strips of paper were more valuable to me than my life would ever be (as life slipped further and further, as the bailiffs and the letters and the utter loneliness-) "I agree to this."

On the contrary, Fugaku looked delighted. If that slight jaw twitch could be interpreted as a 'smile'.

.

(And the distinctions between Sakumo and Ethan grew larger, stopped bleeding over into each other, as Sakumo was willing to warp and compromise while Ethan was still bleeding out on the pavement.)

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 **a/n**

All reviews are welcome. All.

Lay it on me, brother.

I'm trying to improve, and without someone giving me a hard slap around the face I'm not going to be able to.

(Even flames. Flame me. All you'll do is make me hotter. )

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I always reply to reviews in the next chapter.

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This will (like my other fic 'Isthmus') have erratic updates - literally whenever I finish a chapter. Right now my main fic 'Recondite' hit a brick wall as my beta left and now I don't have anyone to kick me out of my imagination slump. (Though that should be fixed by the end of the month. Maybe.)

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 **Fic suggestions:**

This chapter's theme is fics that inspired, well, this fanfiction.

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*Oiroke no Sakura _by_ Oniko (rated M)

Naruto badgers Sakura into learning his Sexy Jutsu so he can sneak her into his bachelor party. Sakura caves in to find the experience transforming in more ways then one, causing her to question her self-identity, gender and sexuality.

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*the productive use of cortisol _by_ nora9gina (rated T)

She's a goddess of the wild, and there are eight other shards of her floating in the wind. All she has to do is bring them back together; being the Juubi doesn't sound so bad if she's whole again. OR: "You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style." [SI/OC as Kurama; Fem!Kurama; prior to the Warring Clans era]

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*Crimson Runner _by_ Ever-changing Creation (rated T)

"Mako was born a coward, bathed in the blood of another, and yet still wanting to run forwards." A boy finds himself reborn in a doomed village, half-brother and protector of Kushina Uzumaki. He must find out what to do next, in order to survive. Male SI-OC.

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will probably be changing my username again soon, but for now,

please

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button

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leave

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review!

Thank you.

\- 12ta


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